Hanging Fire
by heystella
Summary: Now she is his for the taking, now she... she is his. GinSherry. M for sexual content.


Title: Hanging Fire  
Author: kaiyrah  
Word Count: 1168  
Rating: M (or R) to NC-17  
Disclaimer: Detective Conan and characters are not mine.  
Spoilers: none that I know of, unless you REALLY don't know the DC fandom  
Warnings: graphic sex, but not like mind-blowing graphic... oO; PWPish  
Characters/Pairings: Gin/Sherry (kind of)  
Notes: This isn't written in my usual style. Also, I haven't written anything not school-related in a really long time, so I'm out of practice. shrugs

---

_Those glasses and overalls you're using as a pathetic disguise don't suit you, but this is a perfect place for the death of a traitor. Isn't that right... Sherry? _

For one moment, and one moment only, he will pretend that she is here, that he has her here -- in his grasp. He knows, he sees -- the woman walking toward him, her white lab coat slipping down, crimson red dress swinging high above her knees -- that shade of reddish brown hair is perfect but her deep blue eyes are not blue enough.

A tool, he convinces himself, merely a tool, a means to an end, she is simply there for his gratification, a channel for his urges.

Lips, tongues, teeth crash together in kisses lacking love. Her cold eyes never leave his when she unties his belt, wrapping slim fingers around his length, kneading him, _feeling him_. Her fingers run up-down, up-down, in experimental fashion -- a part of him wonders how she learned to do things like this -- but before he can help it, a low groan escapes his throat, eyelids half-closed. His hand to the back of her red-brown hair forces her toward him, she smirks and licks her lips a bit. Hot, moist tongue runs along the base, circles the tip, takes him in her mouth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth -- he pushes up into her mouth, wants to see her choke, wants to see her _die_ -- she takes all of him in her mouth and then she abandons his warmth and he is cold, cold again.

_I guess I should thank you for waiting for me out in the cold. _

In his gruff voice, he barks out orders for her, and she obeys, crawling onto his lap, holding onto his shoulders so she does not fall, she does not break. She is used to keeping her balance like this, though, and flutters her eyes close when his chapped lips bruise kisses at the base of her throat, her collarbone. Delicate hands run through long pale gold hair, crushing it in her fingers as his hands pass over her skin under her red dress, past navel, past belly, up to soft breasts.

His thumbs graze, tease, pert nipples, she arches her back in response, breathless, meeting his lips again for rough kisses, her small mouth latching onto his neck, teeth, biting at him -- hearing his grunt, pulling her hips down to his.

For three years she has evaded his clutches, save for that one occasion at the Haido City Hotel, on the rooftop among the pure white snow. That was then, but this... this is now.

Now she is his for the taking -- now she -- she is his.

A hint of gold that he pretends not to see slips out from under the reddish-brown hair that falls in her eyes, she grasps his shoulders lowering herself onto him, manicured nails digging into his back, grinding her pelvis against his, softly, softly moaning...

He groans again, lifting his hips up to move in sync with hers, finding a comfortable rhythm, sweat, heavy breaths intermingling. Only three years have passed since her betrayal, already she feels so different, her body different, more developed, since he saw her last. In the dark room, under the crimson dress, he cannot see her body much, but he can certainly feel it, feel her around him.

It feels... _she_ feels... good -- in ways that he can't explain.

His lips at the base of her neck trails up, his nose taking in the scent of her hair -- it smelled heavily of perfume before, but now -- but now, he detects... plastic, acid, the smallest hint of sulfur. For a brief moment, he thinks he's losing his mind, for smells like these cannot be easily changed, but he disregards this quickly -- and in any case, he prefers the second scent rather than the first. Eyelids drift close, harsh whispers in his ear.

_Faster._

Picking up the pace. Faster. Faster. Faster.

_Harder._

Eases in deep, fast, hard. Picks up a rhythm she struggles to keep up with. He fucks her hard. Harder, harder.

Her scream halts him momentarily. Loins throbbing, still buried inside of her, catching his breath, her breath, her hands around his broad shoulders invading his nostrils with rubber latex. His eyes follow when her fingers move down, down, and begins to touch herself, gasps and sweat making for a dangerous combination. Her head falls back, fingers stroking herself; he can feel it, he can smell it; wetness, warm wetness trickling from her center, wetness that coats him and it feels so _good_. She slides up again, weight falling back into his lap, penetrating again, moaning into his shoulder, throwing her head back, chest heaving.

This is not quite right, he thinks for a moment, her hips moving, straddling his in enticing rhythm. They -- she -- should not know what to do. It comes naturally through instinct, but she -- she knows exactly what to do, how to touch herself, how to touch him. How to do these in ways he's sure to respond to.

Experience -- meaning, she's done this before -- she has done this all before, he's just another person to practice with, because _she has done this before_. Anger, denial, violent anger kicks in when he grabs her hips and forcefully shoves her down while he thrusts up into her.

Someone -- someone that is not him -- got to her first. Someone took her first. She submitted to someone else first; she did not wait for him, she did not wait for this moment. Another thrust, he pushes her away from him, causing her to fall. On her knees, before she can move away, his strong hands reach her first, knocks her to her knees again, forearms scraping the concrete beneath. He pushes into her from behind, thrusting once, twice, many times at an alarmingly fast pace, shoves himself into her using sheer force; pushing her back down onto her arms when she tries to get back up. She didn't wait for him -- not for him. Someone broke her first, the thought sickens him, angers him.

_Whore_.

His guard down, she pushes him away, rolling onto her back, pointing a Beretta straight at his face. Scowling, defeated, he backs away, taking a seat back on the chair. Her face shows ample disgust, tearing the red-brown locks straight from her hair and shaking her golden curls loose, shattering the illusion.

And once again he is brought to reality, that the woman in the red dress is not the one he has thought about for many years, that she is still out there somewhere, perhaps... perhaps she is also awaiting the day they can truly meet again. The woman walks away, he sits, pondering. He will wait for that day. Until the explosion... until they meet -- he will wait.

end.


End file.
